Sickfic

The air at Clemens Point was thick with the scent of pine needles, lake water, and the distant, smoky aroma of Pearson’s stew. It was one of those rare, golden evenings where the Pinkertons felt like a bad dream and the Dutch’s grand plans were momentarily silenced by the chirping of crickets. The gang had gathered around the main fire, a bottle of whiskey making its rounds, and the mood was lighter than it had been in weeks.

Javier had his guitar out, the strings humming a lively, rhythmic melody that seemed to coax the very shadows to dance. Mary-Beth and Tilly were already swaying near the crates, laughing as they tried to remember the steps to a waltz they’d seen in Saint Denis.

Arthur Morgan sat on a log, nursing a tin cup of coffee, his eyes fixed on the fire. He looked weary. The cough that had been nagging at him for weeks seemed to have settled deep into his chest, making his broad shoulders slouch more than usual. He felt heavy, his limbs aching with a feverish chill that he’d been trying to hide behind a grumpy exterior.

Hosea Matthews, leaning against a nearby tree with a book in his hand, watched Arthur with a practiced, sharp eye. He saw the way Arthur’s hand trembled slightly when he lifted the cup. He saw the glassy sheen in those green eyes. Most importantly, he felt the pull—the invisible tether that had bound them together for years in a secret that was both their greatest comfort and their most dangerous liability.

"Come on, Arthur! Get up!" Mary-Beth chirped, twirling past him. "Even Bill is swaying, and he’s got the grace of a mule."

Arthur grunted, pulling his hat lower. "I’m fine right here, Mary-Beth. Some of us appreciate the quiet."

"Quiet? With Javier playing like that?" Hosea stepped forward, closing his book with a soft thud. He caught Arthur’s gaze, a silent command flickering in his brown eyes. "I think the boy is just scared he’ll step on someone’s toes. He always was a bit clumsy when the music started."

Arthur looked up, a spark of indignation cutting through the fog of his malaise. "I ain't clumsy, Hosea. Just... occupied."

"Occupied with being a sourpuss," Sean chimed in from across the fire, grinning widely. "Go on, Artie! Show the girls how a big man moves."

Hosea walked over, extending a hand. To the rest of the gang, it looked like a playful challenge between an old mentor and his protégé. To Arthur, the warmth in Hosea’s palm was a lifeline.

"I’ll teach you," Hosea said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a tenderness that made Arthur’s heart skip a beat. "Since you clearly missed the lessons I gave you twenty years ago."

Arthur sighed, a rough, wet sound that he tried to swallow. He took Hosea’s hand, letting the older man pull him to his feet. As soon as he stood, the world tilted dangerously to the left. He stumbled, his shoulder bumping into Hosea’s chest.

"Easy there," Hosea whispered, his hand sliding firmly to Arthur’s waist to steady him. He felt the heat radiating through Arthur’s shirt—a heat that shouldn't be there on a cool evening. "You’re leaden, Arthur. Relax."

"I’m trying," Arthur muttered, his voice thick.

Javier transitioned into a slower, more melodic tune. Hosea took Arthur’s right hand in his left and placed Arthur’s other hand on his shoulder. It was a traditional hold, nothing that would immediately raise eyebrows, but the way Hosea’s thumb stroked the back of Arthur’s hand was a private language.

"One, two, three. One, two, three," Hosea murmured, beginning to lead.

Arthur tried to follow, but his boots felt like they were made of cast iron. He stepped on the toe of Hosea’s boot almost immediately. "Sorry."

"Don't look at your feet, look at me," Hosea commanded gently.

Arthur raised his head. Up close, he could see the fine lines around Hosea’s eyes and the way his silver hair caught the firelight. He felt a wave of dizziness and leaned forward, his forehead momentarily resting against Hosea’s temple.

"Arthur?" Hosea asked, his voice laced with sudden concern.

"Just... dizzy," Arthur breathed. He forced himself to stand straight, trying to regain his dignity. He took a step back to follow the rhythm, but his legs tangled. He tripped over his own spurs and lurched forward.

Instead of catching his balance, Arthur simply collapsed into Hosea’s space. He didn't pull away. He wrapped his arms around the older man’s neck, burying his face in the crook of Hosea’s shoulder, his entire body shuddering with a sudden chill.

The music didn't stop, but the chatter around the fire died down. The gang watched, confused. Arthur was the enforcer, the rock. Seeing him cling to Hosea like a frightened child was jarring.

"Arthur, son, let’s get you to bed," Hosea said, his voice no longer playing the part of the teasing elder. It was raw, filled with an intimacy that made Dutch Van der Linde narrow his eyes from his chair near his tent.

"No," Arthur mumbled into Hosea’s coat, his fingers gripping the fabric tight. "Stay. Just... stay."

Hosea didn't push him away. He didn't make a joke to deflect the attention. Instead, he wrapped both arms around Arthur’s broad back, holding him close, swaying slightly to a rhythm only the two of them could hear. He pressed a cheek against Arthur’s hair, ignoring the gasps of surprise from the girls and the stunned silence from the men.

"You’re burning up," Hosea whispered, his hand moving up to cup the back of Arthur’s neck, his thumb stroking the hairline. "You’ve been sick for days and didn't say a word."

"Didn't want to worry you," Arthur croaked. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "I’m bad at this. The dancing."

"You’re terrible at it," Hosea agreed, a sad smile touching his lips. He leaned in, and in front of everyone—under the flickering light of the campfire and the watchful eyes of their family—he pressed a lingering kiss to Arthur’s forehead. "But I’ve got you. I’ve always got you."

The silence was broken by John Marston, who cleared his throat awkwardly. "Hosea? Is he... is Arthur alright?"

Hosea didn't look away from Arthur. He shifted his grip, tucking Arthur’s arm over his shoulder to take most of the man’s weight. "He’s ill, John. And he’s stubborn. He’s been hiding it because he’s a fool who thinks he has to carry the world alone."

Dutch stood up, walking toward them with a frown. "Hosea, what is this? You two... you seem rather..."

"We are exactly what we look like, Dutch," Hosea intercepted, his voice sharp and final. There was a steel in his gaze that brooked no argument. "Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’m taking my Arthur to his tent. He needs tea, and he needs sleep."

The "my Arthur" hit the camp like a thunderclap. Miss Grimshaw was the first to move, her maternal instincts overriding her shock. She scurried toward the medical supplies. "I’ll get some herbs. Charles, help Hosea get him to his cot."

"I got him," Hosea said firmly as Charles stepped forward. "Just... help me open the flap."

As they moved away from the fire, Arthur’s head rolled onto Hosea’s shoulder again. The fever was taking hold, stripping away his defenses. "They know," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"Let them know," Hosea replied, guiding him into the darkness of the tent. "It’s about time we stopped hiding in the shadows, don't you think? It’s exhausting."

Hosea lowered Arthur onto the cot with a grunt of exertion. He began unlacing Arthur’s boots, his movements methodical and full of care. Arthur watched him, his breathing heavy and labored.

"You’re gonna get sick too," Arthur warned, reaching out a trembling hand.

Hosea caught the hand and kissed the knuckles. "I survived the cholera in '82, Arthur. I think I can survive a bit of whatever you’ve picked up. Besides, who else is going to put up with your grumbling?"

Arthur sank into the pillow, the cool air of the tent a relief against his skin. "I really am a bad dancer."

Hosea sat on the edge of the cot, smoothing the hair back from Arthur’s damp forehead. The sounds of the camp—the hushed whispers of the others, the crackle of the fire—felt miles away.

"You’re a fine dancer, Arthur," Hosea lied gently. "You just need the right partner to lead you. Now close your eyes."

"Don't go," Arthur pleaded, his voice small, the sickness stripping away the layers of the outlaw to reveal the boy Hosea had raised.

"I’m not going anywhere," Hosea promised. He reached for a blanket and tucked it around Arthur’s shoulders, then settled into the chair beside the bed, holding Arthur’s hand firmly in his own. "I’ll be right here when you wake up."

Outside, the camp was a whirlwind of hushed conversation. Dutch sat back down, staring into the flames, his expression unreadable. Javier stopped playing his guitar, the silence of the night rushing in to fill the void.

"Well," Lenny said quietly, breaking the tension. "I suppose that explains why they always go hunting together for three days and come back with only one rabbit."

A few people chuckled nervously, but the overwhelming feeling wasn't one of judgment. It was a strange, grounding realization. In a world that was falling apart, where the law was closing in and their future was uncertain, two of their own had found a way to love one another in the dark.

Inside the tent, Hosea listened to Arthur’s breathing even out as he drifted into a fitful sleep. He knew there would be questions in the morning. He knew Dutch would have words about "distractions" and "loyalty." But as he looked down at Arthur—the man he had loved since he was a boy with a stolen horse and a chip on his shoulder—Hosea knew he didn't care.

He leaned forward, whispering into the quiet of the tent. "Rest now, Arthur. The music hasn't stopped yet."

He stayed there all night, a silent guardian against the fever and the world outside, holding the hand of the man who had finally found the courage to stumble into his arms in front of everyone. The secret was gone, replaced by a heavy, honest reality that felt far better than any lie they had ever told.